


The Roof

by bellarke_and_the_grounders



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Suicide, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Panic Attacks, St Bartholomew's Hospital, Understanding Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 19:49:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellarke_and_the_grounders/pseuds/bellarke_and_the_grounders
Summary: Please...no...not the roof...not again...





	The Roof

**Author's Note:**

> Hello darlings. This is my first ever piece on A03 and it has taken me what feels like forever to write. Let me know what you think.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> Please note that this fic contains a brief mention of attempted suicide. This is NOT a reference to TRF, rather to the events after.  
> Please take care of yourself and love yourself. As much as we all love our Baker st boys, you are more important.

John loathed that hospital. Just thinking about St. Barts caused his stomach to clench and his chest to tighten. His vision narrowed, and an irrepressible sense of panic and dread washed over him. Three Continents Watson, fearless Afghanistan war veteran even went so far as to take the long way to the surgery each day just to avoid having to walk by the location in question. The image of his best friend frantically flapping his arms as he plummeted towards the earth would be forever seared into his memory. Every night his dreams were plagued with nightmares about Sherlock falling. Sometimes the dream was different. He would tell John the words that he had dreamed of hearing for so long.

_”John Watson. You keep me right. I should have said it long ago. I’ve always wanted to say it… When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth...Not a day has passed that I have not felt remorse for turning you down at Angelo’s that night. And I have only come to regret it more and more every single day. Sentiment...Love…these are not feelings fit for a sociopath. I have never thought myself to be anything else. Until the day that I met you. I love you John.”_

  
Sometimes Sherlock would change his mind and go to step down from the ledge. Once, John had even made it to the roof before Sherlock had fallen. And yet, every single dream ended the same way. Sherlock fell, and Sherlock died. Every night John re-lived the worst moment of his life. The moment that Sherlock died. He would wake many nights, with tears streaming down his face, and Sherlock’s name on his lips.

The thought of the utter devastation and despair he felt at the loss of his best friend would often overwhelm him, and it was something that he would carry with him for the rest of his life.  
So, of course, when John's phone buzzed, alerting him of a text from the one and only Sherlock Holmes summoning him to the very place in question for a case, he panicked.

_Double murder. Come immediately...if convenient...-SH_

_Where are you?_

_St Barts. -SH_

John sucked in a deep breath in an effort to steady his emotions. Sherlock is fine. He had to remind himself several times. He is alive and breathing. I spoke with him this morning. Well, if you counted a noncommittal grunt to be a reply. John reluctantly grabbed his coat off the hook, letting the door of 221B Baker Street slam behind him.

_What floor?_

John received no reply from the detective, in typical Sherlockian fashion. On any other day, in any other place, with any other man, this wouldn’t have bothered Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. But this was Sherlock.

John's heart was hammering in his chest by the time that he pulled up to the hospital. He paid the cabbie and choked down the bile that had begun rising in his throat before emerging from the cab. He couldn't miss the crime scene. The entire road had been blocked off and the entire scene was swarming with officers. He slowly made his way through the crowd and pushed through the barriers as he caught sight of Lestrade and was quickly waved in.

His eyes scanned the scene, seeking out the curly haired detective who would inevitably be wrapped in his signature Belstaf. His eyes landed, instead on a large body sprawled on the sidewalk. His stomach rolled and his body threatened to empty the contents of his stomach as he realized that the body lay only a meter or two from the exact spot where his best friend's body had lay only barely 2 years earlier. "Sherlock?" He rasped. His voice barely a whisper. He tore his eyes from the body, returning his attention to Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Where is he?" the doctor demanded.

Lestrade stiffened. "I don't know why I expected him to warn you ahead of time of the specifics of this one." he grumbled. "Basic human decency, that would be...He's looking at the other body. I promised him that I would give him a few minutes alone with the body before letting Anderson loose up there."

John smiled slightly, trying his best to control his emotions. "Where exactly?"

"Jesus bloody Christ. I'm going to kill him. That utter bastard. I knew he wouldn't tell you..."

John's brow furrowed.

"The victim fell from the roof. Sherlock is up there with the other body."

The roof...the roof...Sherlock fucking Holmes was on the bloody fucking roof of St. Bart's Hospital. Not again. Not this. This couldn't be happening again. Sherlock was on the roof!

John tore past Lestrade before he had even finished speaking, desperately trying to reach his best friend. He bounded up the stairs three steps at a time, ripping his phone from his pocket and mashing his thumb on Sherlock’s name to call him. Rationally, John knew that his best friend was just fine. He was in no tangible danger. His heart, had, at this moment, however, overwhelmed his head. Sherlock was on the roof of the hospital. Of course he wasn’t safe. Four agonizing rings later. “Where are you?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the phone.  
“WHERE THE BLOODY FUCK ARE YOU!?!?” John all but shouted, panting with exertion as he ascended the stairs, ripping the door open as he finally reached top of the staircase.

Sherlock's head snapped up, immediately locking eyes with his blogger. His eyes were wild, his face was flushed, his chest heaving. It didn't take a genius such as Sherlock Holmes to see the panic written all over John Watson's face.

He rose at once, shoving his mobile into his pocket and tearing off the gloves that Lestrade had insisted he wear, utterly pointless as they were, and threw them to the ground, rushing to his friend.

"John?"

"Jesus...Christ...Sherlock..." The older man heaved, his voice cracking at; the name of his friend.

"John." Sherlock grabbed his arms. "Has something happened?" His long, nimble fingers searching for any indication that John, HIS John, has been hurt. "Are you injured?"

John stifled a sob at the sudden and unexpected show of affection on the part of his flatmate. "I...you..."  
He shook his head violently, trying to hold back the tears. "We're on the fucking roof, Sherlock." His voice broke, tears now flowing freely down his face. "There's a dead body on the fucking sidewalk Sherlock...And then Lestrade said you were up here..."

"Yes John...I was observing the crime scene…  
john shook his head in disbelief. “There is a dead body on the ground Sherlock...A man fell off of this roof. Lestrade said you were up here. On this roof...And I…”  
“John..." Sherlock quieted, his heart too, now hammering in his own chest.  
"Oh John...I didn't think...I didn't realize..."

"You didn't think? You didn't bloody think? You are the great Sherlock Holmes! The world's ONLY consulting detective, and you didn’t bloody think! You are always thinking! How could that not have crossed your brilliant mind!?”

Sherlock saw the signs before John realized it was happening. Sherlock sat back against the door and pulled his best friend close. As the panic attack washed over his flatmate, his best friend, Sherlock felt utterly helpless. Sherlock always knew what to do. He knew forty seven ways to kill a man without leaving a mark, he knew the names of every single star in the sky, (despite what John believed) he could learn a new language in under 4 hours, hell, if it wasn’t for his brother, he could manage to bring down the entire British government in one afternoon. Sherlock Holmes was in nearly every sense of the word, an enigma, capable of incredible things. But the one thing Sherlock Holmes could not do was save John Watson. Yes, in the most literal sense, John had been saved. He was still here, warm and breathing, and sobbing in Sherlock’s own arms. But in the end, it was the very act of saving John Watson was the very same thing that had broken him.

Sentiment. His brother had warned him too many times. Sentiment Sherlock... All lives end... all hearts are broken... Caring is not an advantage...Love will destroy you...it will eat you alive from the inside out...

“John...slow deep breaths...that's it...you're okay…”  
“You fucking died Sherlock. I was so lost...I didn't know...I couldn't...I didn't want…” his voice was barely a whisper. “I didn't want to live…”  
“John…” the admission nearly broke Sherlock’s heart. “Oh John…”  
“You have no idea how many...how many times I laid on your bed...gun in my hand...I tried…I wanted to die...”  
Sherlock’s breath hitched.  
“The one time I worked up the courage...My gun jammed...like...you...were...telling me...begging me not to…”  
Sherlock Holmes did not cry. He would never allow himself to feel such ridiculous sentiment towards another human being. And yet...despite his best efforts, Sherlock Holmes could feel the tears running freely down his cheeks…  
“I called Greg...made him take it away…”  
“John...oh John…” He buried his face into John’s hair. “I never thought my death would affect you so much…I never...I’m sorry. ”  
“Of course you didn't…” John lifted his head to look the detective in the eye, “you utter git...can't understand how much you are loved.”  
Sherlock swiped his thumbs under his blogger's eyes, clearing away the tears, before he batted away his own. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side...It’s all I’ve ever known...I’ve always thought that love was a dangerous disadvantage...but as it turns out, I was wrong.  
Clearing his throat, Sherlock rose, pulling John up with him. “Come on...let's go home.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------  
“What do you mean, you're leaving? What about the case?”  
“Oh honestly Lestrade, I hoped that even your incompetent team could have figured this one out. It was the wife. She found out that her husband was cheating, both worked at the hospital and she followed her husband and his lover to the roof during their break. She then proceeded to shoot the lover and during the resulting struggle she managed to push him off the roof. I'll text you the rest of the details. Now please excuse us.”  
Sherlock held his friend firmly by the arm, slowly leading him from the scene and towards the unmistakable black car that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Sherlock knew what it must have looked like to all of New Scotland Yard. He knew that both of their faces were red and tear streaked, but honestly he just couldn't be bothered to care.  
He carefully helped his friend into the back passenger seat of the car before walking around and sliding into the car next to his friend who still appeared dazed, and even somewhat confused.

The ride back to Baker street passed in complete silence. John remained stoic, his posture rigid and tense, as he stared blankly out the window. Sherlock studied his companion through the reflection of his own window. He regretted taking this case. It was a 3 at best, but he had been desperate. He hadn’t stopped to think about how it could possibly affect John, and for that he felt positively awful. An agonizing seven minutes and forty-three seconds ticked by before John finally moved. Without turning his head, he reached out to Sherlock, slipping his hand into that of his friend and intertwining their fingers.

Sherlock had done his best to avoid staring at John, so he was noticeably startled when John had reached out and taken his hand. Sherlock knew that it wasn't intended as a romantic gesture, but he couldn't stop the blush that crept across his cheeks. When the car finally arrived back at Baker street, Sherlock expected John to let go of his hand. He assumed that It would be one of those not strictly platonic things that they would never speak about or acknowledge ever again. Sherlock barely contained his surprise when John opted to slide across the seat and out Sherlock’s side of the car.

It was a full 45 minutes until John let go of his friend’s hand. Sherlock had barely been able to disentangle himself from the good doctor for long enough to remove his coat, before John’s hand sought out his own once more. The two settled onto the couch, John leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, studying their intertwined hands. He finally rose from the couch, his feet carrying him into the kitchen. He flicked on the kettle and retrieved two mugs from the cabinet. His eyes darted over to Sherlock, as if he needed to reassure himself that Sherlock was still there, alive and breathing. He shifted his gaze and turned back to the tea once again.

The air was thick with tension and when Sherlock finally spoke his words hung heavily in the air. “John...I’m sorry…... I am so sorry. I am so very sorry John.”  
John’s fists clenched around the countertop, knuckles white. Sherlock rose from the couch and approached the doctor, all but wrapping himself around the smaller man.

John’s breath hitched, his eyes beginning to prickle, and before he knew it, he was furiously batting away at his angry tears for the second time that day.  
“Two years...the worst two years of my life...You died because of me...To protect me, when I didn't even deserve protecting. I'm nobody special. You though, you are fucking brilliant. There is nobody else in the world like Sherlock Holmes. You are special. The world is a better and safer place with you in it...and for reasons I still can't comprehend, you still chose me…”  
Sherlock brushed his nose against John's ear, sending shivers down the older man’s spine.  
“Every time.” He breathed.  
John finally turned to face him. “What?”  
“If I had to make that decision a thousand times over John Watson, I would choose you every single time. A world without my blogger is no world to live in.”  
Sherlock’s eyes locked with John’s. “Sherlock?” His voice suddenly hoarse, gravelly, and just the slightest bit uncertain.  
“Just the two of us against the rest of the world.” He breathed, angling his head down, brushing his nose against John's.  
“Sherlock...what are you doing?”  
“As always Dr Watson. You see but you do not observe.” And with that, Sherlock finally closed the gap between them, kissing his faithful blogger.


End file.
